


Thiples

by Maleyah (Katherine_Kat)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brazen Dean, But they don't really understand the meaning of the word, Cocky Castiel (Supernatural), F/F, F/M, Fanart, Festivals, First Meetings, Genderfluid, Insecure Dean Winchester, Insightful Cas, Kilts, Leap of Faith, Lust at First Sight, M/M, Make-up, Mal drew a thing, Mal wrote a thing, Martial artist!Cas, Meet-Cute, Music, One Night Stands, Snowglobe story, Soft Boys, Tattooed Castiel (Supernatural), dancer!dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:28:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26755060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katherine_Kat/pseuds/Maleyah
Summary: Castiel becomes aware of the drum bass that picks up quick and fast, the vibrations pleasant under his bare feet. It happens while he’s balancing Meg on his hip for show before finishing her perfect arc. Her shout rings loud and impressive for the sake of their audience, when she collides with the mat. A quick glance up reveals an unfamiliar crew of dancers and musicians setting up around them. They’re dressed as if they walked off a Tibetréa stage. The vibe they rev up with ease is one of those heart-palpitating, liquid limbs dancing folk tunes performed with various instruments, ranging from tambourines and bodhrans to tablas and jembes. If he’s not mistaken, they’re managing an interpretation of Bregović, which reminds him of their first volunteer trek in Eastern Europe several years ago.His gaze catches randomly on one of them, a young man, clad in a low slung long tribal kilt, miles of tanned skin covered in painted tattoos. A dark pulse shoots through him when a pair of bright green eyes, contrasting wildly with the sooty make-up, find his. He tilts his head, as if he’s catching a scent.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Castiel/Lucifer (past and not-siblings obvy), Charlie Bradbury/Jo Harvelle, Ruby/Sam Winchester (Background), Sam/Jess (past)
Comments: 44
Kudos: 61





	1. Under His Bare Feet

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on a series of stories that have to do with the genderfluid aspect of life. This term is often umbrella'd under non-binary and transgender, and a lot of it (for me) moves on a spectrum. Sometimes people like to delineate very clearly, which ironically can feel like it goes against the very grain of some of these identities. In other cases, things are just that, fluid. I do not claim to know which is what for whom. A lot of unknowns.
> 
> Whatever you find in these stories is therefore tied to my experience of wishing I was a boy when I was younger, not behaving like a typical girl in puberty, thinking I was just weird (granted, I am, but not for that reason), and finding myself channeling certain gender aspects more than others on some days in adulthood, but not all the time. I am still finding my footing. Some of this also stems from talking to loved ones and observation. None of what I present or write is perfect or a flawless representation of any of these identities or groups and is written with the utmost love.
> 
> All this because I'm a touch nervous about this, I never know how people will take to it and I really don't want to step on any toes, while dipping into personal experience.
> 
> That said, if you're still here and wanna give it a go, we (I and the boys) welcome you to the warmth of summer, a thunderstorm promise on the air, and lots of music.  
> Love,  
> Mal
> 
> P.S.: This got posted in one go, because I have a few WIPs going and I guess I feel guilty for making people wait? Not sure. Or I like having complete things in my library. Either way. Thing is complete!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His gaze catches randomly on one of them, a young man, clad in a low slung long tribal kilt, miles of tanned skin covered in painted tattoos. A dark pulse shoots through him when a pair of bright green eyes, contrasting wildly with the sooty make-up, find his. He tilts his head, as if he’s catching a scent.

Castiel becomes aware of the drum bass that picks up quick and fast, the vibrations pleasant under his bare feet. It happens while he’s balancing Meg on his hip for show before finishing her perfect arc. Her shout rings loud and impressive for the sake of their audience, when she collides with the mat. A quick glance up reveals an unfamiliar crew of dancers and musicians setting up around them. They’re dressed as if they walked off a Tibetréa stage. The vibe they rev up with ease is one of those heart-palpitating, liquid limbs dancing folk tunes performed with various instruments, ranging from tambourines and bodhrans to tablas and jembes. If he’s not mistaken, they’re managing an interpretation of Bregović, which reminds him of their first volunteer trek in Eastern Europe several years ago.

His gaze catches randomly on one of them, a young man, clad in a low slung long tribal kilt, miles of tanned skin covered in painted tattoos. A dark pulse shoots through him when a pair of bright green eyes, contrasting wildly with the sooty make-up, find his. He tilts his head, as if he’s catching a scent. The world brimming with energy, their owner winks at him roguishly while he adjusts the laces on his leathers bracers, then does the same for the women with him. They touch and tug at each other with a pure familiarity that kindles a warmth in him.

“Eyes on me, Clarence.”

He curses, jumping up and out of reach of Meg’s leg, when she forces his attention back to her. They slide into the choreography with practised ease. He dodges her palm going for his chest, then the fist barely grazing off his jaw with a little too much enthusiasm, the give and take of scowls and smiles all too similar to when they were kids. Her shoulders slip and slide, much like his own, hips canting along with every feigned step, and they are lost in that rapid flow, his tank soon clinging to his back.

With a grunt, he pulls it over his head, a move she happily abuses to plant her foot on his abdomen and knock him off balance. Laughing, he lets himself fall, rolling and easing back on his feet in a three-point landing smoothly, and flicks the shirt aside lazily. He cocks his head to the side and juts his chin out in challenge. She lets out a sharp laugh.

Behind her he sees Balthazar and Gadreel locked in their dance, Bal’s eyes lighting up with the music added to the already high-strung energy on the air. The mere stance of Dree’s shoulders tells Castiel enough about exactly how fair Bal is fighting. To their left, Lucifer lets out a sleazy chuckle, undoubtedly enjoying the show Castiel is putting on, while he takes a dirty swipe at Charlie. Terrible, all of them, he thinks, before lunging forward, chuckling at the slight panic in Meg’s eyes.

They are all showing off, to be fair, because a) they’re here to recruit, either for the club or the project work and b) they’ve been wanting to expend some pent-up energy from the journey, collecting their scattered-to-the-four winds core members. He jumps back in gleefully, acutely aware that there may be eyes following his every move.

*

By the time they’re done, Castiel needs a shower and a change of pants. Lucifer claps his hands high in the air along with the audience, rising to his full length, and oozes his debatable charm all over the mat and beyond. Debatable, because he’s his ex, not because he can’t actually be charming, and the best they have to reel people in, besides Charlie.

What actually has his attention is the absence of the musicians who joined. He cranes his neck, tracking his gaze over the eclectic mass of people moving across the pale grass grounds. The security crew is using hay to cover some of the puddles that formed during yesterday’s storm. The air remaining hot and humid, the sun playing peek-a-boo behind the clouds, there’s every sign of another one incoming.

“Looks like thunder and lightning for the night,” he hums.

“Ah, blast,” Bal says. “I’ll never get used to that.”

“Want me to hold you through the night?” Meg teases.

Castiel jogs to one of the public showers, Bal and Meg in close pursuit. Stripping down to their underwear, his skin tingles with that familiar interest people tend to take in his ink and some of his scars. On the mat, he barely notices, swept up in the moment. Off the mat, it’s difficult not to be aware, though he’s long stopped caring. Quick and efficient, he rinses off, grinning at Meg, when she sidles up against him before he’s even fully out of the spray. Flicking water at her face, he steps away and shakes his hair out like a pup.

Gadreel wanders up with one of their duffels. He plucks out a towel and dries off. The towel tied around his waist, he switches underwear. The towel passed off to Bal, he tugs on a loose pair of generously buckled and buttoned harem pants. After a brief moment of contemplation, he puts on a fresh tank, tucking his wallet, gum and food tickets in one of the many pockets.

Pulling at the fabric, while it catches on his damp skin, his ears prick up, when he recognizes a familiar beat. Instantly he zones in on its source.

The free-range stage.

He’s pulled forward by the depth of the beat, feet sensitive, toes curling, while he meanders his way between the other bodies, gathering around the stage. Somewhere halfway, he pivots a handsy drunk twink around on his axis, shoving him back to his friends with a mute warning. Not exactly his monkey, but for fuck’s sake.

The crowd gets more tight-knit the closer he gets, but he stubbornly continues sidestepping people until he all but stumbles into the clearing in front of the stage and almost barrels into a long-haired bearded guy, several years his junior, setting up his drums. Hazel eyes light up with a friendly smile, while the kid gestures Castiel back sassily. He freezes for a moment, unaware this crew was planning on using it. Quickly, he takes in the situation, relieved that most of them still seem to be finding their way around. 

“We don’t bite,” the kid says. “But our dancers like space.”

“That’s promising.”

“Don’t encourage them too much,” he huffs fondly. “They can get carried away. Well, him especially.”

Castiel barks a laugh. He inches backwards and sinks through his knees, eyes skating around searchingly, but Green Eyes is not among them. Rubbing his scruff, he sighs, unsure if it’s disappointment he’s experiencing or something else. He shivers and holds his breath, when he realizes how wrong he is. Green Eyes is very much _present_.

Wearing a halo headdress?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Story was betaread by Kindathewholepoint, as per usual. Any remaining mistakes are due to my endless noodling.


	2. Like A Tune

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I touch you,” he dares him. “You don’t touch me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fanart in this one! If you wanna see the full version, visit either my [IG](https://www.instagram.com/malcreatesathing/) or my [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/maleyah-givemetomorrow). The latter is much more chaotic. Consider yourself warned. Working on these two made me infinitely more attached to them than I already was.
> 
> Hope their story stirs something.  
> Love,  
> Mal

“Hey, that guy from Charlie’s crew is making his way over,” Jo says.

Dean drags his gaze to where she gestured with her chin, while trying not to move too much under her and Ruby’s fussing touch. The headdress is sturdy enough once settled, but requires some finesse in securing it. The straps tighten pleasantly against his scalp. 

He guffaws softly, when ‘the guy’ almost trips himself up into their designated area, bowling into Sammy. The way he looks around is several brands of intense confusion, but he loosens up a bit when Sam talks to him. His brother has that effect on people. Even makes him laugh, a sound that plays the man’s body like a tune, which causes Dean to blink and smile. And quite cute when he slips into a crouch, trying not to take up too much space in stark contrast with how he carried himself on the mat.

“Did we have a name?”

“What do you mean ‘we’?” Ruby laughs. “You’re interested. Get his name yourself.”

“Dunno. Does he look familiar?”

Ruby scoffs. “Sure he does. Because you’ve only been ogling him since the second you caught sight of him flexing his muscles.”

“Gotta admit. It’s a lotta muscle.”

“And attitude. Just how you like ‘em.”

He whistles softly when some of the aesthetic detail comes into focus. “Hell, I thought it was the sun playing tricks on those eyes… Very, very blue, like...”

 _Ice_. He suppresses a shiver.

“Okay,” Jo laughs. “Let’s get this droolfest over with.”

“Hey, I’m allowed!”

“You certainly are,” she grins. “But how about we stop pretending you don’t want to go out there and impress him.” She tucks a few of the black feathers in at the back for a finishing touch. “You’re good.”

He gives a few testing shakes of his head, the mass of braids, shells and beads falling around his shoulders. Fanning out behind his head like a halo is a ring of fine golden coins that jingle delicately with every move. “I’m more than good, sweetheart.”

Jo laughs. “Oh, I think he just… uhh, pegged you?”

Dean keeps his gaze firmly on her face, because she’s perfectly capable of yanking his chain over this. He busies his own hands, returning the favor for the girls’ headgear and laying last finishing touches on their makeup. “Sure.”

“No, seriously… Maybe pull one of your stunts before you get on stage?”

He casts a tentative glance over to the audience and, oof, yeah, alright, he _is_ staring straight at Dean, who looks away again quickly. A pleasant heat ratchets up his spine and he rolls his shoulders, adjusting the bands on Ruby’s biceps.

“Are you _suggesting_ I try to flirt with him in front of everyone?”

Ruby cackles. “Like you haven’t before.”

“That! Stop playing coy, Dee. Victor and Cassie are getting restless.”

Quickly, he plants his feet wide and bends through his knees to ensure he won’t be flashing anyone during their performance. “Aren’t we all the time?”

“ _You_ maybe,” Jo shoots back.

She and Ruby saunter off, a more than generous sway to their hips, as they make the first circle of the day to pull everyone’s attention. Jo’s attire is a lot less revealing than his, because, well, it’s Jo. Ruby not so much and Dean snorts when he sees Sam’s eyes twinkle. If only his brother could work up the nerve, he’s sure Ruby would be all over him. He deserves it after Jess. As for Dean, he simply adores the kind of energy they build with these performances, the sun on his skin, the outfit throwing delineations to the wind, and his heart feeling like he might take off, as if he’d ever get so lucky.

Benny and Cassie start up a slow rhythm, Sam weaves alongside them with his endless instruments. How his brother keeps track of each of them, he doesn’t know, but between them Sammy definitely got the brain part of the Winchester deal. Or marginally better odds.

After the introductions, Jo and Ruby are owning the ring, riling up the audience and singling out onlookers. Jo avoids ‘his’ guy, but Ruby enjoys working one of her more sinuous hip tricks in front of him, pushing her knees wide with both hands, while she casts a coy glance over her shoulder at Sam. Ice Eyes figures _that_ out easily enough and either way, he’s not paying excessive attention to the girls. Instead he’s looking at Dean. And then, attitude zinging off him like sparks that travel straight to Dean, dude juts his chin out, raising both eyebrows expectantly.

Inhaling sharply, his heart flutters. Dean smiles wickedly, ludicrously taking _that_ as his cue, while he amplifies his energy from within and bounces in. Cassie and Benny add vocalization, Victor alternating to the shawm. They’re spitballing, weaving together their most energetic songs and various versions of Ederlezi, when they notice the audience’s response.

All three of them unite in the middle, working a choreography in short bursts of energy, body parts shifting and clicking into place in near perfect sync. Hips tilt and roll, feet draw circles in the sand, shoulders and arms work the beat, wrists out and up. Their headgear jingles temptingly with every firm thrust and sway. They beget wolf whistles and crowing easily enough. He loves the feeling of being this threaded to his friends and not for the first time, he considers staying longer, already knowing it won’t last. It never does. Behind him Jo laughs and nudges him subtly, before they break apart, the musicians taking center stage.

Christ, Ice Eyes’ focus is scary, but he’s also insultingly collected.

That won’t do.

Dean regulates his breathing, when Benny slows things down to a sumptuous beat that’s ideal for all three of them to show off. Kittenish, Jo bypasses Charlie, who actually pouts at not being chosen. Ruby divides her attention, unable to stay away from Sam, whose rhythm admirably barely falters. 

Dean zones in on _him_ without hesitation, grateful for the breeze blowing through that cools off the sweat sheen on his skin. Whereas he didn’t move an inch while Ruby was jiggling her works at him, something shifts the second Dean gets within tactile range.

Feeling particularly brazen with the guy’s face at groin height, Dean reaches out and flicks his finger just under that ridiculously dark stubble. His eyes flash, a dangerous smirk shaping those lips. They look chapped, but somehow he’s convinced they’re going to be soft when he kisses them.

“I touch you,” he dares him. “You don’t touch me.”

The guy smoothly rises to his full length and fuck, he’s taller than Dean expected. Shoulders and thighs strong enough, Dean’s convinced he could climb him, and isn’t that a lovely idea? His face must’ve given away either the thought or the surprise, because he works his mouth, pink tongue flicking out. The one eyebrow ticking up coolly sends a hint of want through him.

Fuck, he’s annoying. Dean’s smiling from ear to ear.

“Yes.”

The word hits too fast for Dean to get a read on him or his timbre, but it’s all he needs anyway. He dances up against him, holding his gaze, relishing how they’re instantly caught on each other and the world all but falls away. Fuck, he wasn’t wrong to be drawn to him. This kind of gravity doesn’t happen every day.

He turns around, cause he knows _exactly_ what his back muscles and ass can do to people. Benny laughs and winks at him when their eyes meet across the distance, but he barely notices. Behind him, he _feels_ the energy shift as the guy inches in, a hand hovering near his left shoulder in Dean’s peripheral, and he half expects to feel it on him any second. 

Alas.

That is a lot of heat just an inch away, he thinks haplessly, for all that ice. He cants his hips, hands on his thighs, dropping into a low grind. Glancing over and up, he catches the gaze that rakes over his form without restraint. Barely a difference with the pokerface before, except for something, _something_ Dean can almost taste if he were to risk licking it off his tanned skin. Dude also shoved his hands in the pockets of those low-slung harem pants, the tendons in his arms taut, while he leans back to get a better look. He’s taking Dean’s challenge to heart.

Not cool. Cool and, uhh, hot, but _not cool_.

He bends through his knees, throwing them wide, as he leans against the guy’s legs, casting a wide eyed look up. His cheeks catch on fire at the heat kindling in those eyes. Ice can burn too, right? For a breath or two, Dean rests his head against his stomach intimately, the feathers tickling, even if it’s through the fabric of that offensive tank. Leisurely, he undulates his way back up, ass grinding against the guy’s groin, back and hips the star of the show, his hands sliding over his stomach and chest, the noise around him cresting at the display. Baring his throat to avoid hitting him in the face with his headgear, Dean slots to him, arms up and over so his fingertips graze the stubble. Delights in it, the second the weight of him tilts forward enough for Dean to feel him and his hot breath.

“Your _name_ ,” he grits out in a voice like gravel that lands tangibly in the back of Dean’s neck and shoots straight to his libido. 

Appallingly, Dean’s knocked off his rhythm, spine straightening with a jolt, arms coming down to grab the guy’s hips. Easy does it, he thinks. Thank fuck for the thick kilt material. Laughing to cover the whimper that threatens to break free, he tilts his head back, wondering when this guy’s going to give in and touch him, because he can _tell_ he wants to. Those pupils don’t lie.

“All ears,” he winks brazenly, a little breathier than he intended.

“Castiel.”

That was quick. And why does that sound familiar?

“Eyes peeled, _Cas_.”

A growl chases him when Dean fucks off towards the stage without giving his own name in return. A jolt of tingly energy fans across his skin, the giggle that escapes a surprise even to himself. He pivots on his axis, bending through his knees slightly and working his shoulders at Cas. Throws in a kissy face for good measure. The man looks like he’s fighting the urge to throttle him and Dean bites his lip, turning away just as Cas moves towards him.

Gotcha.

The stage part is always a bit more structured and focused on showing off the musicians. It leaves him with plenty of time to work Cas from his vantage point, using it to his full advantage. Jo rolls her eyes at him and mouths ‘get a tent’ at him, to which he waggles his eyebrows, cause done and done, if he has any say in the matter. Seriously.

By the time they take their ill-coordinated, laughing bows, Cas is practically undressing what little he’s wearing with his eyes. His hands in his pockets, feet planted rather wide, he’s still looking like the picture of zen though. The audience, possessing that typical festival-attention span of a fly when nothing’s happening to entertain them, starts to disperse, but not before Dean throws himself off the stage straight at Cas.

He laughs when that stoic face shifts to wide-eyed disbelief and arms come up, fast and strong, to catch him. The landing is kinder than he expected it to be, but Cas’ hands still dig into his flesh hard as his mass accommodates Dean’s weight.

“You’re insane,” he growls, baring his teeth, and, yeah, Dean instantly loves the sound.

Dean grins, working his thighs to help hold himself up, feet curling around Cas’ thighs. “I figured I’d get the trust exercise out of the way first.”

Jaw clenching prettily, Cas quirks an eyebrow.

“Oh, you passed, sunshine,” he beams, working his thumbs at the back of Cas’ neck into _very_ soft strands of hair. “Name’s Dean, by the way, Dean Winchester.”

Cas unceremoniously tosses him up a bit so he can get a better grip, clearly no intention of putting Dean back down. He likes how it makes his gear jingle with enthusiasm. Pursing his lips in amusement, Cas regards him curiously. “Very well, _Dean_.” Oh, that sounds lovely. “What was the plan beyond this point?”

There’s laughter behind them, part stifled, part boisterous, and he knows they have an audience.

“No plan,” he smiles, shaking his head, the bells like Tink.

Cas tilts his head as he narrows his eyes. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Not if you know me.”

“Hmm, let’s get to that then,” Cas hums deeply, tilting his chin so their noses almost brush together. It’s an oddly sweet gesture.

“What?”

“Getting to know you. It seems we have a mutual friend.”

Charlie pops up beside them as if summoned like a little demon. “You guys! Dancing and a cuddle pile?”


	3. A Ghostly Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas looks sufficiently put out by the moniker, but Charlie is fearless in the face of it which in turn emboldens Dean to run with his curiosity. He sips his bottle.
> 
> “Mobster?” 
> 
> “Don’t ask,” Cas says, ducking his head, eyebrows shooting up in a sentiment he can’t place, but it looks uncomfortable.
> 
> “Okay,” Dean hums, though he wants to. “I won’t.”

Dean knows Charlie well enough to interpret cuddle pile as exactly that. First, they clear up their instruments, packing them away safely, along with the less practical parts of their outfits. Cas looks equal parts observant and disappointed when Dean returns without his headgear. They pile up and spread out on a bunch of blankets and pillows, their shared possessions more than enough to get them comfortable. Pooling their tickets, a decent meal of fresh bread, cheese, chili, and plenty of drinks are brought in.

Although Cas did put him back to his feet, his kilt rucking up generously, they may as well be joined at the hip. He looked almost miffed when he had to let Dean out of his sight. This unspoken familiarity of invading each other’s space feels foreign, something Dean observed jealously in his peers while growing up, never able to establish the same. Cas’ hovering fingertips find an ethereal purchase on his body, be it his hip, his shoulder or knee. Suggestions of a ghostly song, always just on another plane of existence, and it makes tiny hairs stand on end, trying to close the gap. He’s never been this sensitive to anyone in his life.

Dean mirrors the behaviour without a second thought and possessively dips in for the physical touch each chance he gets. It confuses him when Cas doesn’t give in _more_ every time Dean tilts into him just those few lovers-to-be inches. Usually that works like a charm, he muses, while he takes the smoke from Benny. Taking a few deep whiffs, he passes it to Cas, who simply hands it down to one of his friends. Gadreel, if he was paying sufficient attention during introductions.

“I thought we were getting more booze?” Lucifer complains.

“Charlie’s at the bar,” Cas says, “But guess what?”

“Right, she knows someone again. Christ, we can’t send her to do anything without losing her.”

They glance at their redhead friend, who's all too aware of them, because she flips them off. Several of them cheer for her, making it worse. Whoever she’s talking to looks moderately frightened, while she makes her way over with a full tray. Leaning it on her hip, she hands them out, and juts her chin out at Cas when he accepts his beer.

“Yo, mobster, you up for a new housing project in spring? They’re looking for more volunteers.”

Cas looks sufficiently put out by the moniker, but Charlie is fearless in the face of it which in turn emboldens Dean to run with his curiosity. He sips his bottle.

“ _Mobster_?” 

“Don’t ask,” Cas says, ducking his head, eyebrows shooting up in a sentiment he can’t place, but it looks uncomfortable.

“Okay,” Dean hums, though he wants to. “I won’t.”

“Really?”

His nose twitches. “Really.”

“By the way,” Jo says. “Soti’s here again this year! They’ve got thiples in spades!”

“Thiples?” Cas asks. 

“Angel wings,” Dean says before he can help himself. “Dipped in syrup.”

Head tilt. Adorable, Dean thinks, when Cas squints at him, as if smelling there’s more behind the five-word reply. “Hmm. Want some?”

He shakes his head.

“You look like you do though.”

“I… maybe.”

“Tell me,” Cas says simply and Dean’s speaking before he can second-guess himself.

“It’s one of those things… A memory scent,” he says, dropping his eyes to his hands. “Mom and Dad used to buy them for me and Sammy, when we were little.”

“You’re local.”

“I used to be,” he amends evasively. “Before everything went to shit. After,” he continues quickly, “I bought them for Lisa. Until that too went to shit and I just… stopped.”

There’s a gentle sound, a cough or a hum, he’s not sure, and the air tightens around him. Questions. Here come the questions.

“I know it’s stupid,” he says, when no questions are forthcoming and his skin crawls under the pressure of silence.

Cas regards him, an unreadable expression on his face. Says nothing, offers no empty words or platitudes, and Dean’s grateful for it. He breathes a little easier after that, sinking back into the chatter and comfort of the group, his knee pressed to Cas’ thigh.

*

They’re dancing when it starts to drizzle. It's warm rain, which must be messing with his henna tats. Make-up ought to hold. Ruby makes a point of quality. He catches darkened hints of tattoos through Cas' tank, scars peeking out where his pecs meet his shoulders. They're dancing the way he danced for Cas. Inches apart and the energetic space between them pulses along to the beat of the music. With their lack of personal space, people, friends and strangers alike, either comment brazenly or respectfully look the other way. Tune out the world, he thinks, and for once that’s easier done than said. Dean’s out of his depth or going under in the perfect hue. He’s not sure what about Cas pushes his buttons and when exactly he lost control over the situation. There’s a nagging inkling he may never have had it in the first place. 

It might be that the guy has been popping in and out of his personal space with disturbing grace and ease, ever since he put Dean back on his feet. He leans in unnecessarily close whenever they exchange thoughts, breath and timbre making direct contact with his skin. Whispers as if they’re sharing secrets, when they’re not. His laugh, a rare thing, is excessively appealing in how it ratchets up higher than his actual voice. The goosebumps are almost permanent. They’re not even _doing_ anything and maybe that’s the problem.

All while looking so very collected himself, it’s driving Dean nuts.

They retreated into one of the smoker tents when the rain didn’t let up and now they’re too lazy to move back outside. That and their clothes need to dry. His kilt itches and the air’s moist, leaving a permanent sheen on everyone’s skin.

Ruby plonked her legs in Sam’s lap, who is dutifully rubbing her feet. Dean idly wonders if her doe eyes could get any bigger, but at least that’s looking hopeful. Victor returns with another tray of drinks, Jo and Charlie making grabby hands at him instead of each other for one whole friggin’ minute. Whoever isn’t actually hooking up in pairs is still being tactile with whoever’s willing, resulting in Balthazar, Cassie and Gadreel in a heap. Benny, Meg and Lucifer are in another, which is a vibe he’s trying to steer clear of, cause it’s downright frightening. The strange feeling of loss or restlessness is made worse when Lucifer catches how he keeps staring at Cas. Not like he didn’t before, but for some reason this time it provokes the older man.

“Awww, Cassie, those eyes… Looks like you found yourself a new pet to torment.”

Charlie smacks him in the back of his head, Lucifer wincing unconvincingly.

And, jeez, fuck, Dean knows it’s a tease, but the way Lucifer says it, a strange glint to those unsettling eyes, and the way Cas affects him while not taking any kind of _real_ initiative, he believes it, his insecurities suddenly teetering viciously. He shudders. Lucifer laughs, an almost cruel sound. Besides flipping Lucifer off lazily, Cas gives Dean _nothing_ to go on, except more of that gravitational force which he is trying to ignore. A fucking, terrifying vortex and yet he’s still here.

The start of twilight is tugging at him. He likes it, the way the heavens get slowly dipped in the ink of night and somehow brightened into unreal colours, especially here, away from the light pollution. He wouldn’t mind a walk under the stars. Cas notices his increasingly frequent wistful glances. Fingers butterfly over his wrist, surprisingly warm after the rain, and trail up the inside of his arm, drawing his eyes there.

“Anything you wish to do, Dean?”

The tone holds a delicate balance between suggestive and genuinely interested. Cas’ thumb dips in at the crease of his arm and Dean’s own heartbeat pounds against the digit, because that’s actual contact. Licking his lips, Dean looks up through his lashes, frustration and need at war. The way Cas’ mouth quirks up knowingly on one side makes something inside him snap.

“Sonovabitch.”

With a little snarl, he surges forward and plants himself in Cas’ lap. There’s that genuine surprise again, like those nanoseconds while Dean leapt off the stage, and, good, he wants that. He doesn’t care they’ve got an audience while he grinds down on Cas. Let Cas know exactly what he’s packing and the fact that he’s technically commando underneath this thing. Holding Cas’ gaze until the last second, he dips in on the side closest to the tent and stares ahead at the warm string lights, voice landing at the shell of Cas’ ear as he exhales hotly, tone a lot firmer than his insides.

“Two can play this game, sweetheart.”

A delicious rumble is his first reward. Two large hands come up and Dean is quick to retreat, wagging his index finger. There’s that flash of _something_ again, not quite anger, but definitely tight-wound, and he grins, flicking his tongue over his canine. “Ah-ah-ah.”

And lo’ and be-fuckin’-hold, this guy listens. Of course he’s a dick about _how_ he listens, jostling Dean bluntly while he oozes back into the pillows, giving Dean generous friction in the process. His arms come up and around, as he folds his hands behind his head. Dean's hands land on Cas' thighs, a gesture not lost on those ice eyes.

“You’ve been eyeballing the outside like Rapunzel in her tower. So walk?” Cas suggests coolly. “Or are you comfy now?”

They sit in stalemate for a heartbeat, eyes narrowed. 

“I am if you are,” Dean says stubbornly, crossing his arms.

The laugh that escapes Cas sounds equal parts desperate and impressed, his hand swiping over his mouth, and he looks back at Dean. He rests his temple against his knuckles, other arm wide on the back of the couch, patiently nodding. “As you wish.”

“Oh, god, get out,” Jo snaps. “This is annoying to watch.”

“You’re not even related to one of them,” Sam huffs. “Imagine how I feel.”


	4. Make Me Sing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you gonna get to work on me any time soon?”
> 
> “Oh, are we at the part where I have that permission?”

Sam and Jo were right of course. They should have gotten out. As it was, they drew out the tension for another fifteen minutes or so, before Charlie all but ordered them to go for that walk and get their heads screwed on right. Screwed being the operative word and not at all combined with the correct body part there.

Which is how they landed here. In his very own tent, Dean straddling Cas like a pro again, sans onlookers, the bells on his ankle jingling erratically with their every move. Dude’s an amazing kisser, tongue deep enough down Dean’s throat for him to touch parts of him no one has before, his unrestrained groans muffled in Cas’ mouth. Cas is trying to take him apart, doing only that, while he’d like the man’s hands on him. Under his kilt.

He curses blearily, but smiles anyway when Cas laughs, because the sound is beautiful. Opening his eyes, he takes in the kiss-swollen lips, as soft as he imagined them, and the lights dancing in his eyes.

“Are you gonna get to work on me any time soon?”

“Oh, are we at the part where I have that permission?”

“Huh?”

“I’ll grant you, I’m not abiding by the rules exactly, but…”

Not getting it, Dean gives him a mute glare and pointedly kisses him again. Besides kissing back, Cas still doesn’t give in. He moans in frustration, hating the need that’s leaking from the tone, when Cas’ fingers track his thighs, but skirt shy of anything of note. Not that being touched isn’t bliss in itself, but he _wants_.

“What? I gotta ask?”

“Ask. Beg. All semantics. But… Yes. Since you so explicitly stated I couldn’t touch you.”

His eyes skitter across Cas’ face, in search of any malice or trickster tendencies, until it dawns on him. Whatever was gathering inside him uncoils at the snap of a finger. He huffs, his shoulders slumping forward, before he leans back in Cas’ lap and laughs.

“Your tongue was near my tonsils seconds ago!"

Cas is looking at him expectantly, a smug kind of _knowing_ all over his face.

Dean stares, until it clicks. “Sonova…”

Now it’s Cas’ turn to laugh, lips spreading wide and his eyes crinkle beautifully. He cups his hand behind his ear, leaning in a bit. “Sorry, what? I can’t hear you, gorgeous.”

With renewed enthusiasm, spurred on by a ridiculous amount of relief and the energy between them, Dean tilts his center of gravity forward. He rolls his eyes. At the last second, he gives in to the giddiness that bursts free, suddenly hellbent on pushing Cas’ buttons in turn.

“Oh,” he hums sweetly, laying the honey on thick. “Oh, I’m _sorry_ … Please, please, please, _mighty_ Cas, I need your touch so badly. I wanna feel you.”

He rolls his hips, unable to resist the smirk that forms when Cas’ eyes widen, then darken.

“Want your tongue up my ass, your dick on my tongue, those thighs of yours making it hard to breathe. I wanna feel you so hard I can’t do anything but scream. Make me sing you a song, Cas, while you try to keep me quiet, muffling all those obscene sounds I’m gonna make.” He winks. “And good luck with that.”

Cas has gone completely still underneath him, eyes nearly black in the canvas-filtered light, and somewhere along the way, Dean’s taunting timbre got lost.

“Or maybe I wanna know what the sting of this hand feels like on my ass -” he covers one of Cas’ hands with his own, “- while you slowly drive into me, this hand on my neck keeping me pinned down until I tell you otherwise. Make me forget the world outside our tent. Cause I need a slow, torturous fuck, Cas…”

Cas is panting now, and hey, Dean is right there with him.

“Or maybe,” he whispers, bending over so his shadow covers Cas, “Just maybe I wanna fuck you slow and sweet. At first. Or fast and hard, or both. Hmm? Cas? Would you like that? Whatever it takes to see that mask of yours shatter to pieces underneath me and I can see all of you.”

Well, _shit_ , that got intense real fast and he may be giving away much more than he should. Fuck. Cas’ chest shudders when he inhales and Dean’s strangely pleased with that perceived vulnerability, even when it ain’t close to his own. 

“What are you hoping to find?” Cas whispers lowly.

Thankfully, his usual smugness seems to have left him during Dean’s little speech, replaced with something infinitely softer that tugs at him, like an ocean’s current he’s powerless against, straight to the sirens. He knows instinctually Cas isn’t asking about the raunchy bits. Doesn’t understand why he’d ask though. He knows even _less_ why he gives him the truth.

“The soft parts of you. I can almost taste them, just by looking at you, Cas, like syrup on angel wings. Translucent, but there. And I want them.”

At least for one night, he adds in thought, and funnily his heart flipflops when Cas nods, only once, and seems to _get that_. He shivers as Cas’ hands land on his thighs, thumbs running circles through the fabric.

“I could say the same about you.”

He chuckles softly, a pained expression slipping through his own mask. His ears are drumming and in the distance, the sound of thunder comes rolling in. “Not much to find, sunshine, even less to keep, but if you want your blanket permission, you have it.”

Cas’ face hardens, his jaw clenching, as if getting the permission settles it, and Dean hopes he can get most if not all of his brazen requests in one night, cause Cas… When Cas kisses him again, it feels more real. Like something shifted, which is stupid, and it’s all on Dean’s neediness, now out in the open, but he opens up with a deep moan that slips into a greedy yelp the next breath when Cas flips them.

“Good, because I’m going to take my sweet time with you, Dean Winchester.”

He almost melts at the promise in those words.


	5. Too Silent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world is too silent and his brain too loud. Let's not even talk about his heart.

By morning, it really shouldn’t surprise him Cas is gone. His eyes feel small and tired, because they didn’t get a lotta sleep and he wrinkles his nose against the damp clinging to his tongue when he breathes in the tent’s air. Gross.

He unzips the tent flap and inhales the chill of early morning. The grass is still wet. Also no surprise considering how it poured. The thunderstorm lent a beautiful, almost surreal vibe to the night and he's mentally flipping through lightning-white images of Cas. Of his hands on his skin. The tousled outline of him, suddenly lit up in glaring white. Except somehow the eyes, though he's sure he imagined that. His chest hurts and he shies to easier areas. The storm also covered up some of their noise. So much noise, he flusters at the memories.

Grumbling, he fails to locate his sweats and instead is forced to wriggle his clammy legs into his jeans. The fabric warms up soon enough, but it’s still annoying. He throws on the least damp t-shirt. Crawling out, he pulls a blanket and towel with him and parks his sore ass in one of the bean bags. A brief, quiet rummage through the cooler delivers a much-needed bottle of water. He’s hungry, but there’s nothing decent to eat, so with a pout he settles down, staring at the quiet camp.

His brain’s a juvenile, unhelpful thing though and it skips back to the night.

And, hey now, listen… Dean’s fucked a lotta people, okay.

Cas?

Cas is rare. He realizes it now in the stinging absence of him, a chill prickling through his core, while he tries not to think hard enough to wake anyone up. He knew it when Cas effortlessly called up every one of the items on Dean’s taunt list and gave him exactly what he wanted, and much, much more. Who knew the stoic dude had such a knack for holding a melody? Cause that's what last night was. Harmony. All in the heat of the moment, of course, which takes some of the credibility out of it, but... Now? The world is too silent and his brain too loud. Let's not even talk about his heart.

Well, not every item on the list perhaps, because they lacked walls and some tools, but with what they had at their disposal - each other - they did _good_. More than good. He cocks his head, eyebrows going up in self-deprecation, while he sips the water. 

Sure, he begged. Not in that fake kinda way he sometimes had to resort to when the guys he picked up turned out to be all talk and no walk. Muffled his screams against Cas’ massive hand over his mouth, while the bastard looked down at him warmly, loving every second of it.

And he knew it in the way Cas read him. Likely had been reading him since the second their eyes met. How he held that line between hearing him, actually listening, and ignoring him when he knew better. Hit every fucking mark possible in one night, and somehow held Dean through it while he keened out his name over and over. Licked off sweat. Come. May have kissed away tears.

“Shut up.” He cocks an eyebrow at himself, while he finishes the water, and sighs.

His body is generously sore and thrumming with a lingering energy, but there’s a knot growing tighter under his sternum at waking up alone and being stuck with these memories.

He smiles, wiping a hand under his nose, as his gaze coasts to the heavens. Because, yeah, Dean fucking got Cas riled up until he was wrecked, ordering Dean around without expecting him to fully comply. His sex hair only got worse throughout the night, making Dean laugh when Cas got fake-offended. Bent to Dean in ways he never expected of a man like Cas, while never losing that edge. But then Dean wasn’t exactly what a first glance broadcasts either.

Until… He doesn’t know when or why exactly it happened. Part of Cas broke, insofar as he’s capable of it, but he remembers distinctly the moment Cas trembled under him, hands shaking, and fell apart, the soft parts revealing themselves. Never fucking mind that it laid Dean equally bare in the process and they clung to each other a bit too tight and too long, foreheads pressed together, staring, falling, well beyond eyefucking and regular fucking and both painfully aware of that sticky vulnerability clinging to them in their sweaty, little tent.

But that’s the gift and the high of the moment, right?


	6. Attuned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He woke up the Greek pastry guy. Turns out his full name is Sotiris and he’s way too friendly for his own good, while Castiel’s still way too good at getting people to do what he wants.

Castiel is standing in line to buy him breakfast. Not just any breakfast. Oh, no.

He woke up the Greek pastry guy. Turns out his full name is Sotiris and he’s way too friendly for his own good, while Castiel’s still way too good at getting people to do what he wants.

Dean evades that somehow. Not entirely, because, well, Castiel is who he is and Dean… Dean possesses a few qualities that play right into that. He grimaces. Let’s be fair, he thinks, lips moving without sound. Considering he convinced Soti that he needs these specific pastries to impress a ‘really cute’ guy, he may as well go the rest of the way. Dean has a _personality_ that pings extremely enthusiastically on Castiel’s radar.

He’s been trying to put it into words. Seeing as he rarely gets those wrong, it’s unsettling to find that Dean eludes those too. Perhaps no surprise for one so attuned to rhythm. He shifts his weight back and forth, alternating it from heel to toes, the wet grass and soil soppy under his soles. He follows Soti moving through his van, enamored by the hands-on, no nonsense process.

There is a reason Castiel goes from complete order in his job to utter freedom in nigh everything else. His body when he trains. His environment when he travels. His connections when he tries to leave the world better than he finds it and atone for a past he had no chance of understanding until it was much too late.

Most of his friends believe he holds a balance. Castiel knows better.

Scenting the air, when the thiples start chanting a sizzling melody, he leans on the counter, lifting his chin under Soti’s wrinkly and knowing smile. “So who’s the special person?”

“Dean,” he says, wondering.

Taking in Castiel’s attire, a glimpse of recognition lights up the old man. “Little Winchester?”

He smiles, a peculiar elation loosening up his shoulders and forehead. “Little?”

“Well, his brother outgrew him by a few heads, didn’t he?”

“True. You get away with that?”

“You can get away with a lot more than his initial bark lets on. Too much even, especially when…” The old man leans on the counter, veiny hand drawing patterns he can’t discern, and he studies Castiel without restraint. Raising a curious eyebrow, he keeps himself in check, sensing on instinct this man is downright analyzing him.

He wants to prompt him into speaking, a lot less patient in the face of an external source of information than he has been with Dean so far. It takes a fair effort not to. Several minutes pass by, until Soti gives a few slow nods and taps the counter.

“Well, let’s say it all comes down to how good you intend to be to him.”

He holds the dark gaze and his tongue, which makes Soti twinkle with indulgent tolerance.

“I was glad to see him again. We’ve missed each other a few years.”

“He dropped by?”

“Only to say hello. So I’m also glad to see _you_. You look like the sort that might just screw his head back on the right way.”

Pun intended or not - never underestimate seniors - Castiel flusters to his hair roots, but refuses to look away. He can still smell Dean on him. Their combined scents if he makes an effort. “Which way would that be?”

“The boy’s not made for running,” Soti says. “He’ll need his horizon and he’s made for the road, but not for running. Needs a...” 

He cuts himself off, but Castiel knows. Nodding, he tries to swallow. Leave it to some random stranger to help him make sense of the melody that’s been rattling around in his skull since yesterday at the first hint of a beat and those sad, green eyes.

“Syrup?”

“Are you testing me?”

Soti grins, perhaps more resistent to him than he initially thought. “Syrup or no?”

“Of course.” 

He follows the drip of the golden liquid in those skilled hands. Two cups of steaming coffee. Counting out the money, Soti shakes his head and waves him off with a warning finger and a meaningful glance. Castiel leaves it in the tip jar anyway.

His walk back takes him across a sleep-heavy festival terrain, a dense morning quiet pushing down on his ears. The sky is overcast, but promises enough sun for the day ahead and suddenly he hopes. The box in his hands seems almost weightless, because of it, and at the same time nerves weigh him down. He grunts softly. Lucifer saw through it in a heartbeat, but for the wrong reasons. His mind slips into that overactive thing without making much sense, except in the feeling department. The wings on his shoulders almost itch, as if they want to materialize, so they can take flight. He pricks his ears when he gets close to their grubby patch of the camp.

He sneaks between the main one and the trees, his nerves set free against his ribcage. He's awake, wrapped in a blanket. Wearing pants and a t-shirt, he's every bit himself as he was in a kilt. There are still smudges of make-up around his eyes, but they've gone into smokey territory; almost as if he's been crying. Remembering that he _did,_ Castiel bites his lip in appreciation. Their tent is open, no doubt airing out. Fiddling with an empty bottle, Dean’s sniffling and rubbing at his nose, a gesture that makes him look younger than the brazen stage diving man he met yesterday. His hair sticking out like a hedgehog augments the overall vulnerable levels and Castiel’s heart contorts when he realizes what he’s reading in the stance of those slumped shoulders.

Carefully, he slips back into the familiar, so as not to freak Dean out any more than he likely already will when he puts breakfast on the table. So to speak. It’s a tree trunk.


	7. Weaving Melody

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unflinching under the snappy tone, Cas laughs knowingly. “You thought I left.”
> 
> “No.”
> 
> “Try thinking less loud next time, gorgeous.”
> 
> Next time?

“Enjoying the memories?”

There’s a shuffle in the tent next to theirs and Dean fumbles with the plastic bottle until it bounces off his fingers, landing in the grass at Cas’ feet. Of course he’d sneak up on him.

“What’s it to you?”

Unflinching under the snappy tone, Cas laughs knowingly. “You thought I left.”

“No.”

“Try thinking less loud next time, gorgeous.”

Next time?

He chances a look up and manages not to make a sound at the sight. Cas is wearing one of his old band shirts and the sweats he couldn’t find.

And holding what looks suspiciously like breakfast.

Cas moves closer, setting down his spoils on the tree trunk they set up around, which, he notes, include coffee, then plants himself in the folding chair across Dean, legs stretched out long. He toes off his untied boots and crosses his ankles comfortably. Dean’s eyes catch on the familiar box and his breath hitches, while he’s reaching for the paper cup.

“Are those…?”

Cas gives him an even look, sipping from his coffee, eyes narrowed like a cat’s. “Yes. Figured it was time someone bought them for you.”

It stays too silent for too long.

When he sees Dean is still staring at the treats, he sighs and waves a hand. “You can take it or leave it. I thought maybe new memories weren’t a bad idea...”

His heart lifting at the words, Dean takes one and nibbles on it, relaxing into the moment, when Cas does the same.

“So you live around here?” Cas asks.

“Uhh, I don’t really… live anywhere. Besides in Baby, I mean.”

“Baby?”

“My car,” he says. “'67 Chevy Impala.”

Cas tilts his head, curiosity rippling across his features, a clever scrutiny settling in. Dean swallows the food, suddenly not so reluctant to share. He already hinted at this yesterday anyway.

“I, uhh… I mentioned our parents used to buy these, right?”

“Uh-hmm. They’re very good.”

“You never had them before?”

Cas shakes his head, struggling with the stickiness, which pulls an endeared feeling loose, swirling temptingly around his heart.

“When we lost mom, Dad changed. We all did, I guess, but Sam and I were so young… We kept moving around, never settling down for any length of time to form any kind of connections. When it became just us…” He trails off. “I sometimes think Dad almost waited, until he was sure I was old enough. That they wouldn’t split us up.”

“To abandon you?”

He inhales at Cas’ sharp tone and looks up, eyes wide, unsure if he wants to defend his father in the glare of those stern blue eyes. Oddly he _knows_ the anger isn’t directed at him, which is a new experience.

“That’s what you mean, yes? When you say he ‘waited’...”

He guffaws at the air quotes, mouth dry at the ease with which Cas read that. “I… Yeah,” he says lamely. “He… I mean, it was ruled an accident. The car… I rebuilt her. But yeah, in a way, I guess.”

He huffs a few times, before grabbing another angel wing and stuffing half in without a second thought. Cas’ mouth quirks up in amusement, softer lights dancing in his eyes when Dean turns to him with one hamster cheek.

“Wha’?”

“Nothing,” he says. “Go on.”

When he landed himself in one of those ‘go on’ moments, he’s not sure, but for once, he doesn’t want to stop.

“Anyway,” he says around the melting syrup. “I rebuilt Baby with uncle Bobby’s help and started working there to get Sammy through college. Kid’s too smart for his own good. Hence all the instruments. He couldn’t even choose.”

“You became his guardian?”

“Well, yeah,” he shrugs. “Who else?”

Cas shakes his head, then tilts it at Dean, his brow knitting together as if he’s staring at an unknown species.

“We lived together during his college years. And then Sam took to the white picket fence life with Jess like a duck to water… Until he lost her. But this is home for him.”

“And you?”

“Not so much,” he says. He tries to smile, but can tell his face contorts to a pained grimace. It’s not that he doesn’t _want_ to… “It doesn’t seem to be for me?”

A heavy-lidded question mark in Cas’ eyes tracks his form and he wriggles from side to side. 

“I just took whatever jobs across the state or beyond I could. From mechanics to dancing. Sam was a champ about it, but I know I messed up there too. Met Charlie along the way and ended up with this crew. We traveled together, attending festivals. But I’m on my own a lot.” He frowns, licking his fingers clean pensively. “Guess I take after Dad more than I thought.”

When he looks at Cas, a pleasant feeling pools low in his gut and crests playfully to his stomach. He doesn’t know why, but it’s there. A tingling sensation fans out across his shoulder blades to his cheeks. The gaze in those eyes is ice, alluring and beautiful, sparkling like endless snowflakes to get lost in.

“Would you like me to build you a house, Dean?”

He chokes on some angel wing and lets out an undignified sound, trying to get it to go down the right pipe. “Fucking hell, Cas.”

“What?” Cas sips his coffee delicately, one eyebrow arched.

“You can’t just say something like that…”

“Why not?” He licks his lips, tilting his head in genuine interest. There is, however, a generous amount of attitude to the way he works his shoulders. Something tells Dean this guy isn’t used to anyone telling him he can’t just do or say something, if he so chooses.

“You just don’t. What do you really know about me?” he asks.

Because Cas is starting to feel like Flynn at the bottom of the tower, scratching for entrance to something he tends to keep under wraps. Or likes to pretend doesn’t exist.

“Well, as it turns out a lot,” Cas smirks, eyes glittering darkly. He lowers the cup to his thighs, held daintily between his two hands, while he purses his lips. Inhaling, he shakes his head as if to say ‘here goes nothing’ and then Dean’s swept up in a string of words he never expected to hear after the kind of night they shared. Or in this lifetime.

“You love your brother tremendously and clearly would do anything for him. You love your friends equally deeply and take care of others without a second thought, but prefer not to be a burden for too long. You somehow think you deserved some of the things that happened to you, which is _wrong_." A _very_ stern glance, there, and his stomach tumbles. "You’re one _hell_ of a dancer. You’ve got a big mouth and an even bigger smile. You can build cars, which… is amazing.”

Dean snorts a helpless giggle. “Dude, you build houses.”

Steadily holding his gaze, Cas barrels on, his tone of voice commanding. 

“You have at once no sense of self-preservation at all, as per that stage dive, but somehow hold the softest parts of yourself closely guarded, which includes that lovely tummy. You are stunning with and without make-up, smeared and all. You joke easily, because you genuinely like to see other people smile, even when you don’t know them from scratch. You feel things more acutely than most, which you like to hide behind all this bluster, which is very charming, but, I assure you, _not_ the only reason people love you. Though you’ll likely tell me I’m wrong about that, which is why you’ve also been taking to the road with, apparently, ‘Baby’ all this time.”

He’s frozen in place, except for his shaking hands, which he promptly shoves under his thighs. An ache is pushing against his rib cage and down on his heart, so he curls in on himself a bit. All fine, if he could just look away from Cas.

But he can’t.

“That and you said our tent,” Cas adds casually.

“I… what?”

“‘Make me forget the world outside our tent.’ During that lovely little rant of yours? Seemed like such an innocuous -” Dean rolls his eyes, because who even talks like that? “- thing to say, but it got to me.”

Shit. Shitshitshit.

“Are you done?” he asks hoarsely, as soon as he can catch his breath.

Cas makes an exaggerated thinky face. “I likely overlooked a few things, but I’ll let you know if anything else comes to me in the coming days.”

Again with the time ahead.

“And you call me crazy.”

“I never said I was sane,” Cas smiles wickedly. “Or normal.”

“No, you didn’t,” Dean amends, tone bemused.

“So what would you like to do?”

“Huh?”

Forgive his brain for being in shambles right now, okay? All he can hear is the weaving melody of words Cas just spewed on endless repeat.

“Would you like to chew me out and counter every one of my assessments? Would you like to tell me I’m egregiously wrong? Or would you prefer to turn tail and take to the road again?”

“Holy shit,” he snarls. “You’re not pulling any punches.”

“We rarely do.”

 _We_.

He regards Cas heavily, who holds under his gaze without flinching, but then what did he expect from the warrior he got to meet yesterday? In fact, he _still_ looks annoyingly zen and smooth in every one of his gestures, while he enjoys his coffee. Uncrossing his ankles, Dean loosens up in the thighs, as he sets the cup aside.

Finding Dean again, like a rubber band always snapping back into place, Cas narrows his eyes. “What are you thinking?”

“Not much,” he says. “Or too much. You kinda…”

Cas quirks a softer smile. He wants to stick out his tongue. So he does, the gesture oozing into a helpless, uncertain smile.

“I don’t know much about you.”

He may as well try for another derailment, before he does something stupid like consider the actual potential. Cas lifts his cup at him and winks, totally out of sync, but adorable.

“Ask away.”

What does this guy _want_ from him?

“Oh, no,” Dean laughs. “You tell me, _mobster_.”

His jaw working charmingly, Cas leans into the chair, which creaks under his mass, and folds one hand behind his head. Fuck, Dean can’t not look at the flex that rippless through his body.

“Alright, Dean, I’ll play,” he says. “My full name is Castiel Michael Novak.”

His brain whites out. _Novak_? Oh. Oh, _shit_ , that explains the ink, he thinks, eyes helplessly roaming over Cas’, pardon, Cas in Dean's clothes, remembering them in explicit detail, until he is caught on the wry smile Cas bestows on him.

“I see you’ve heard of the family. I’m not affiliated with them anymore, but back when I was, I went by Angel.”

Dean wiggles the treat in his hand pensively. The wings. Of course. A manic little laugh escapes him, because this is escalating into hallucinogenic territory and he really shouldn’t find Cas even hotter than before. “Oh, nope, nono, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I wish I was,” Cas says, some of his usual sass leaving him.

“What happened? If you wanna share, I mean.” 

“Quite simple. I figured a stint in prison wasn’t exactly a normal thing for any family to expect of you, so I did my time and cut ties with them. Ironic for that to be the proverbial straw, all things considered. About five years back now?”

“Charlie,” he exhales, then slams his mouth shut, wanting to extend Cas the same courtesy he got. “Sorry. I’m listening.”

“It’s fine. I like watching your face when you react,” Cas says, smiling wider when Dean groans confusedly, because how weird is he? “And yes, Charlie. She stumbled onto some of our shit, trying to prove a point that she could hack anything or whatever. We got along swimmingly, you understand, and she helped me pry myself loose.”

He nods several times in quick succession, trying to wrap his head around this. A few things mesh at the same time. His knowledge of the Novak family, how Cas’ intensity suddenly makes a helluva lot more sense and... 

“So _am_ I just your new pet to torment?”

The calm fades from Cas, this time revealing legitimate shock at the words. “May the devil drag you straight to hell.”

“What the fuck, man?”

Cas catches himself and glares at one of the tents.

“Luci,” he says tightly. “Don’t believe him.”

“Why? You two clearly have history.”

“Oh, we do. He still lies like a rug and he knows me from… before. So his perception of me is steeped in old habits and even older memories.”

“Or those habits never left.”

He’s testing Cas now, a sense of dread settling at whose hands he was at last night.

“Hmm,” Cas hums. “One of the most beautiful things I learned after leaving…”

The smile is soft, his gaze slipping away and Cas out of Dean’s grasp with it, going a thousand yards in a nanosecond. Dean wishes he could see wherever Cas just went.

“Change. Change is the only constant.”

“Uh-huh, okay, Whitman. Before I get roped up in your philosophies or poetics, whichever it is,” Cas grins wickedly, clearly charmed by Dean’s bluff and not nearly as put off as he expected, “Stick to the tangible. What is it with _Luci_?”

“He was part of the family before. My ex. A friend now, albeit a most annoying one, but back then,” Cas says sardonically, face contorting in self-deprecation, “part of my security detail.”

Dean barks a laugh that surprises himself and sends birds flying from the trees behind them. “Oh, you went Whitney on his ass?!”

“Who?”

“Whitney Houston, dude. The Bodyguard?”

Nonplussed, Cas shrugs. For a moment, they’re distracted by giggles in one of the tents. Female. Jo, if he has to guess, which probably means Charlie’s there too. The laughter is soon replaced by the sound of wet kisses and fabric moving.

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“That sucks the fun right out of it.”

“My apologies,” Cas says, and his tone lilts up like a question. “The upbringing wasn’t exactly normal, but…”

“Normal is overrated. Forget it. So you fucked the bodyguard.”

“We were an item. Off the radar, of course. Can’t have any of _that_ in the family. Suffice to say Luci’s image of me is different than anyone’s who became a part of my life after. Now and then, it bleeds through.”

“Okay, fair enough. That can still mean you see me as your pet.”

“Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing,” Cas smirks. “But not how I’m coming at this. Or you. I promise.”

When Dean doesn’t reply and just keeps staring at him, as if he can get to the truth that way, Cas hums softly. It takes a moment for Dean to notice the pink dusting on his cheeks.

“I like to think we had a, hmm, healthy give and take last night?”

Dean smiles despite himself and something clicks, because they were many things last night. One-sided and unwillingly at each other’s mercy wasn’t one of them.

“A shadow part of me. Nothing to fear,” Cas says, and this time he hears the urgency in his timbre. His need to convince Dean. It lands, perhaps too easily, strings lacing together, though he doesn't have the overall picture yet. He nods, wiggling his foot to reach for Cas and lessen the distance between them.

“So this is what you do now? Travel the earth in search of houses to build?”

“I wish,” he laughs. “That’s volunteer work. Happens at least once a year, sometimes twice, if I get lucky. I have a horridly normal job.”

He falls silent on purpose. Dean can tell. “As what?”

Meeting his eyes steadily, Cas snickers once before he speaks, trying not to laugh. “I’m an accountant.”

“Buuhwhut? An _accountant_?”

“What? I’m surprisingly good with numbers.”

Dean narrows his eyes, failing utterly not to grin at the infectious twinkle in Cas’. 

“One wonders why? So what about your family? Don’t you have, like, a rugby team worth of siblings?”

Cas barks a laugh, the sound dancing up on the light breeze they’re getting. “I do. No more contact with any of them, except my brother, Gabriel.” He sits up and reaches for the box, holding it out to Dean. There's a dip in his tone which tugs at Dean. He knows there's something there he's missing. “Take the last one.”

“Sticky fingers,” Dean hums happily. “Wanna split?”

“No. I’m good like this,” Cas says.

He proceeds to lean back and shamelessly observes Dean, eating. It should bother him, but it doesn’t, because he loves the taste of the angel wings and the feel of Cas’ eyes on him. By the time he’s done licking his fingers clean, Cas is rubbing his hands together as if they’re longing to touch.

“You used to live in the city,” Dean says, shying away from the temptation.

“Yes.”

“It took you a lot of effort to get out from under your family’s wings.”

Cas rolls his eyes at the expression. “I have my own set of wings. Effort is relative, especially in retrospect. It smooths out with time, if you will.”

“So why offer… _that_? Here?”

“I tend to put roots down for the sake of people, not in spite of them. And this is as much your home as it is your brother’s. Or mine.”

Dean works his mouth around emptiness, because that implies a helluva lot, and this guy is so much at once. Though knowing what he knows now, which granted still isn’t a lot, at least explains _some_ of that.

“Pun undoubtedly intended with your white knight tendency to build people houses.”

“Which only becomes a home with the right people in it.”

Dean snorts an incredulous laugh, while he shakes his head, and the word 'family' lights up in his mind, carried on a finely tuned chord.

“Which of the seven deadly sins is your driving force?” he asks abruptly.

Cas’ eyebrows shoot up, a grin in hot pursuit, when he’s clearly instantly on board with whatever idea he thinks Dean has. Joke’s on him, cause Dean has no idea or plan or… much of anything. He’s part stalling, part giving into his curiosity.

“Wrath,” he says easily. “Likely a toss-up with pride. Though I wouldn’t call it my driving force.”

“No?”

“More of a tripwire, aren’t they?”

He shrugs, his curiosity insufficiently sated, especially with Cas’ tendency to throw questions at questions. “I suppose.”

“Back in the day,” Cas says, “Which makes me sound older than I am, but back in the _day_ , pride was definitely a problem. The Novak name itself is a synonym for it. And wrath, well, seeing you saw my wings, you know where that one came from.”

He hesitates, studying Cas in earnest. “Ehh, I tend to take those kinds of reps with a generous amount of salt,” he says smoothly, just to see what it does. 

Cas softens considerably around the shoulders, as if he was holding tension. “Good. I appreciate that, even if a lot of it was true.”

“That and to me, angels are something else. My Mom used to say I had one watching over me.”

A wicked grin splits Cas’ face. “Also valid, in a way.”

Dean grimaces at the persistence. “Is this honesty to a fault or are you trying to warn me off?”

“Not at all. Don’t get me wrong, I am still capable, but I was always extremely good at channeling it to the right source.”

Dean quirks an eyebrow.

“Look at it this way,” Cas adds. “Say I build that house. We live in it. Whoever is dumb enough to break in isn’t going to like it, when I get to work.”

“You really shouldn’t be this charming,” Dean mutters, his stomach and heart still being idiots about that little ‘ _we_ ’.

Cas shrugs lightly. “What? Knowing someone actually has your back?”

He lets out a generous giggle. “I think last night proved that goes both ways.”

“It did,” Cas grins. “What’s yours?”

“I wanna say greed, but only because…” Cas’ eyes narrow with interest, when he hesitates, but fuck it, if they’re playing twenty questions, he’s not gonna chicken out in the face of a most interesting former mobster. “Only cause the real one’s probably lust. Just not _that_ way,” he adds hastily.

“Oh, really?” Cas smiles, his voice dropping an octave.

 _Christ_.

“If you’re gonna be a bitch about it…”

“No, but I’m all ears, if you’re so inclined.”

“I am inclined in various ways,” Dean huffs. “But I guess lust, because I’m always wanting more? Tactile… I want to… indulge, even when I shouldn’t or…”

He chances a look at Cas, finding him deeply enthralled, his head tilting back a bit while he drinks Dean in. Predictably he loses his train of thought and leans forward to flick grass blades off his jeans, when Cas’ lips start to move.

“When you are hesitant to ask?”

“One, I asked plenty. And bee, are you sure you didn’t get a degree in psychology?”

Cas scrunches up his face adorably, stretching his arms up and over his head. “Lord, no. I just learned to read the room at a very young age.”

“Right,” Dean says. “So plenty of crap in your backpack too, huh?”

He’s swinging wildly now, trying to grasp at the sharp edges. The parts that’ll inevitably trip him or Cas or likely both of them up, so he knows it won’t just be down to him.

“Sure,” Cas shrugs. “No more or less than anyone in our circle though. Would you prefer I pretend to be something I’m not or, worse, see you for anything less than what you are?”

Dean exhales shakily and frowns, that bemused, head-spinning setting in again. Strange, as if he’s floating on something he can’t define, buoyant and fluffy, like he knows he’s about to…

“So we make it up as we go?”

“Of course,” Cas smiles.

“That’s gonna take some getting used to.”

It takes a few moments, before he realizes what he said and scowls at Cas’ ever-widening smile, all gummy and cute, ice eyes melting to endless oceans of blue. His faux-annoyance is quickly overwritten by a mild panic, when Cas gets on all fours and crawls his way over, damp spots forming rapidly on his knees. Dean doesn’t move, pretty sure he doesn’t want to, though he has no idea what’s about to happen.

Or maybe he does.

His legs fall accommodatingly wide the second Cas’ hands make it past his ankles and he slots between them as if they’re made for each other, settling on his haunches, face dangerously close. A worrying amount of teeth is flashed at him in a smile that holds the line between predatory and sweet. What stirs in his eyes is infinitely more vulnerable though. Hope.

“So that’s a yes?”

Dean’s heart leaps up in his throat. His mind whites out for a brief moment, before stilling to an interesting calm. He has no idea _how_ it’s going to work, but right now? Cas is making him believe they can make it work.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah, that’s a yes, Cas.”

He cups his hands around Cas’ face, pulling him on top of him, the bean bag shifting and rushing under their combined weight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! I want to write the thunderstorm smut, but brain says 'no' for now. If it happens, I'll post it as a separate story and turn it into a mini series. The song that was on repeat while writing this was [Ederlezi](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2iLuDRxnf2o) by Tibetréa. Might be your jam, might not be.
> 
> *points* There is a tiny bonus chapter, which is barely worthy of the moniker. Still, it exists in its zany glory.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I'm not sure why, but these two are dear to me. If you've enjoyed residing in their world with them for a while, do let me know.  
> Love,  
> Mal


	8. Bonus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas and Dean's crews are Very Relieved TM they got their shit together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't ask, but enjoy?
> 
> *hides*

“Christ Al-fucking-Mighty, are you guys finally done?!” Meg yells.

“You’re awake?” Dean yelps, breaking the kiss.

“You’re here?” Castiel snarks.

Various tent flaps move and open almost in exasperated unison, some of their friends pouring out, looking appropriately mussed, naked, fucked and hungover. Castiel makes zero effort to move, instead planting possessive hands to Dean’s hip bones the second Luci has the audacity to open his mouth.

“Most of us are,” Charlie grins.

“Seems we came to a silent agreement to let you two hash it out without interruptions,” Jo says sweetly, limbs draped over Charlie. Both women make a face when Balthazar struts out of his tent naked to stretch.

“Aren’t you all perfect gems,” he says.

“We’re a treasure and you know it.”

He snorts softly and ignores them in favour of kissing Dean again. The sweetest little yelp has him smiling, then dipping in shamelessly. House. Thiples. Keep the world at bay. He can do that.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fifth in a series, which I haven't officially made into a series (because clutter tags). You can find all of them, if you follow the 'snowglobe story' tag. Links below if you feel like exploring <3
> 
> [Heavenly](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23247922): friends with benefits dumb, but sweet boys.  
> [Thiples](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26755060): festival setting with martial arts Cas and dancer Dean. Subtle genderfluid.  
> [Dance Real Close](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28014339): spies AU, winter ball, blatant flirting and first kiss/time.  
> [You're My Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29061300): roommates/friends to lovers, genderfluid Cas, first kiss.


End file.
